In The Ruins by Lydia Bower Classification: SAH, MSR Rating: NC-17 for sexual content. Spoilers: US5--The End Distribution: Anywhere, just keep it complete and with my name attached. Summary: Some fires destroy. Others cleanse. Mulder and Scully experience both. Disclaimer: Moose and Squirrel aren't mine. They belong to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. Skinner belongs to the Burly Surly Guy. The X-Files belongs to Mr. Twinkly Eyes, the gang at 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended and no money is being exchanged. This is simply an exercise in maintaining my sanity. Author's Notes: Being the World's Slowest Writer (TM) and having my mailbox flooded with post-The End fics, I wondered if I should even finish this story, let alone post it. But the ever- supportive Primal Screamers convinced me there was room for at least one more voice. If you like it, thank them. If you don't, blame me. All comments to bower@cu-online.com In The Ruins by Lydia Bower ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ But if I am to heal I must first learn to feel in the ruins. Melissa Etheridge ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ We are the only color in the room. The only things alive. The air is acrid and thick with heat; filled with wet sounds and hot sounds and the sounds of dying things. The sounds of ruin. At this point, I don't know if I'm holding Mulder up or it's him that's supporting me. I think it must be the latter, as he's as stiff and unyielding as stone. A worthy structure to lean against. Gone. Up in smoke. Everything. His life, his dreams, his hope. Our work. Our partnership. Does he share the numbness I feel at this moment? I can't begin to comprehend the enormity of this loss. I didn't think it possible, but Mulder tenses even more, every muscle so rigid I fear he might shatter at anything but the lightest of touches. And then he starts to tremble. I feel it beginning deep beneath my fingers' grasp and moving upward and all through him. His face, when I lift mine to look, is a portrait of anguished rage as only Mulder can achieve. Only those most adept at reading his face would notice the slight flare of his nostrils, the gritting of teeth behind a carefully set mouth, the minuscule narrowing of his eyes. His eyes. Burning with an inner fire hotter than anything that has destroyed this office. It is the source of his unabated trembling, the fuel that pumps his heart and moves the air through his lungs. His lips barely move, but I hear his muttered oath: "Sonofabitch." "Mulder." He carefully sets his hands on my arms and, without sparing me a glance, moves me aside. He then sets about savagely but methodically finishing the destruction. Cabinets are yanked away from the walls and tipped over, spilling their water-soaked, charred contents. Walls and shelves are cleared of blackened mementos, charts, photographs; hot sparks flying in the air around him. The tops of desks and tables are cleared with long sweeps of his arm. Ashes lift and dance in the flurry of air his movements create, rising up and swirling about our heads. Curses flow from his mouth in an unending stream of rage and pain. I don't try to stop him. It wouldn't do any good, and would likely just end up with one or both of us hurting even more. I remain where he left me, holding myself tightly, hot tears burning my eyes, defiantly held back. It's only as Mulder stops to survey the damage, turning toward my area of the office, his intent clear, that I snap from my lethargy. I step to him, a plea on my lips, when a voice rings out behind us. "Agent Mulder!" It's Skinner. We both start and swing around to him, almost as one. Skinner flicks a look in my direction before turning his attention to Mulder. "I think there's been sufficient damage done here already," he growls, his tone like razor sharp teeth. "There's nothing more to do right now. I want both of you to go home and sit tight." Mulder is panting heavily beside me, worn from his exertions. I can feel heat coming off his body in thick waves, smell the pungent tang of his sweat. Skinner looks back at me. There is a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes--unsullied by any kind of pity. "Is that clear, Agents?" "Yes, sir." I answer for both of us as Mulder abruptly moves to the door. Surprised, I take his lead. I'm not sure how to interpret his out-of-character compliance. It seems all I can do is follow him where he goes. As usual. As always. Mulder stops just as he's about to pass Skinner. He locks eyes with the Assistant Director. His face is smudged with soot, his eyes still burning with rage. He rasps out a few short, harsh words. "They can't do this to us," he declares. "I won't let them." As if all this is something that hasn't yet occurred; an event that any of us can prevent from happening. Skinner's tone is gentle. "Go home, Mulder." They exchange a long look before Mulder steps past him and out the door. Skinner catches my arm as I follow. It's all I can do to lift my eyes to his. "I'll contact you as soon as I can. It might be a good idea if you stay with him." The ghost of an embarrassed smile crosses his face as soon as the words leave his mouth. He already knows I wouldn't be anywhere else. "Take care of yourself, Scully, and be careful." I manage a whispered thank you and take one more look at the burned-out office. I'm forced to swallow down painful laughter as I notice the only thing left untouched by Mulder's hand is the poster on the wall behind his desk. It's scorched and blackened around the edges, but the simple statement--proclamation and prayer--remains legible. I Want To Believe. I hurry to catch up with Mulder. He's reached the first floor, his water-logged sneakers squishing and squeaking against the marble. He practically sprints to the car but then goes absolutely still as he waits for me to catch up and unlock the door. He slides wordlessly into the passenger seat and leans his head against the glass, his eyes trained away from me. The trip is made in complete silence but for one short exchange. "Your place or mine, Mulder?" That gets a look in my direction, and forced cockiness. "Exactly what've you got in mind, Scully?" The scathing look I give him is automatic. He has the grace to look embarrassed as his attempt at innuendo falls flat. He gingerly scrubs his forehead, sighing, "My place." We don't speak again until we've stepped into his apartment. He throws the deadbolt behind me and leans up against the door as I flip on the light switch and shrug out of my coat. I hang it on that odd billiard ball coatrack of his, inspecting it as I do. The trench is ruined, the hem soaked in filthy water, covered with soot and ash. So is Mulder, now that I have a chance to get a good look at him. He is painted with black smudges. His jeans and t-shirt, his arms and hands and face. His once white sneakers are gray. As is his complexion. He looks completely wiped out. "Mulder, you should try to rest." I reach for his hand and he sucks in a sharp breath, jerking it away. My first thought is of his savagely broken finger. But no, it's the wrong hand. Burns. Of course. He's burned his hand. Some of the things in the basement were still smoldering when he went postal. "You're hurt," I tell him unnecessarily, taking his hand again. He lets me, and watches silently as I flip it over. There are three or four reddened patches on his fingers and the palm of his hand. I can see small blisters forming under the skin. His left hand shows the same damage. First and second degree burns. Nothing some antibiotic cream and gauze won't take care of. "I'm okay," he mumbles. "No, you're not." Automatically, I begin checking his arms. More burns. Small ones. He stands passively as I run my hands up his arms, wincing as I reach the curve of his neck and shoulder. I pull the collar of the t-shirt away to look. Another burn on the side of his neck, this one larger and deeper. "Oh, Mulder," I sigh. So much pain. I wonder if the day will ever come when we're both healthy and whole at the same time. "You need to get cleaned up so I can dress these. Can you manage a shower?" For the first time since I began my inspection, he lifts his eyes to mine. The fire in them has burned down to ash, gray and chilly. He nods slowly and heads into the bathroom, pushing the door partially shut behind him. I wait until I hear the shower come on before I go down to the car for the medical kit and my small overnight bag. Once back inside, I slip off my shoes, hesitating only a moment before I enter the largely unfamiliar territory of his bedroom. It looks much as I remember it. Stacks of boxes and cardboard file cabinets fill most of the room, and I side-step them to the bed. A thick, dark green comforter is covered with more papers and books and stacks of neatly folded laundry. Mulder may prefer the couch, but I'd like to get some sleep in a real bed. It only takes me a few minutes to clear it. I'm pleasantly surprised to find soft cotton sheets and fluffy pillows under the spread. It's so like Mulder to splurge on the best of things and then deny himself the luxury of actually using them. I often wish he would allow himself some small comforts. Well- stocked cabinets, a set of matching silverware and dishes. The use of his own bed instead of the poor substitute of a narrow couch. The gentle touch of loving hands. He denies himself as though offering up penance for some horrific crime--his only accuser being himself. Before I leave the room, I dig through the tidy piles of laundry and find clothes for him. I stand in front of the bathroom door, my fist raised to knock. I don't know what compels me, but instead of knocking I lower my arm and push through the half- open door. "Mulder? I brought you some clothes. I'll leave them on the toilet." I'm met by the sound of the shower and nothing else. "Mulder? You okay?" I don't know what I expect to find as I step to the tub and pull the curtain open a bit. Perhaps a repeat of the shocky Mulder I discovered in a motel in Providence? At least this time he's on his feet. He's standing with his back to the showerhead, eyes closed, a bar of soap in one hand, a washcloth in the other. I quickly glance away, obviously more concerned with modesty than he is. It's apparent he's gotten no further since I left than stripping down and getting under the water. His arms, from mid-biceps down, remain covered with greasy black soot. Water runs from his scalp down over his smudged face and neck. I speak to him softly, not entirely sure if his mind is still here with the rest of him. "Mulder, you need to get clean." His reply is barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the hard spray of the shower. "I'm tired, Scully." He can't even be bothered to open his eyes. The decision is made in an instant and without my customary weighing of risks. I draw the curtain back and push up my sleeves, leaning in and taking the washcloth and soap from his hands. You can do this, Dana. Just get him clean and get him out of the shower. I purposely choose his face and neck to wash first, allowing time to steel myself for the larger and more dangerous task of cleaning the rest of him. I am well aware that in my professional capacity as a doctor, I must have the ability to view a nude body as just that: a structure of muscle and bone, in no way sexually arousing in and of itself. I have very little trouble switching from admiration to clinical detachment. Under normal circumstances, I don't even have to think about it. But this is not normal. This lean, strong body belongs to the man I've loved and desired for years. And I'm finding it very difficult to access the part of my brain that is physician. Especially now, when events have left me vulnerable and clinging to whatever remains of what Mulder and I have, and what there is between us. The X-Files brought us together, and that has been effectively destroyed. But the work hasn't been all that's kept us together over the years; not even close. It's the connection we rarely acknowledge that binds us most tightly; those things left unspoken and numinous. It is this connection that has allowed the woman in love to push stubbornly to the forefront tonight. I soap the cloth and begin carefully cleaning his face. With my arms held high, it isn't long before I'm wet up to my armpits, the water tickling me as it races down my sides and soaks the waistband of my pants. Only the tightening of his closed eyelids alerts me to the tiny pinpricks of burns on his face as the cloth encounters them. I berate myself for not realizing sooner how it must be chafing his tender skin. No washcloth then. I drop it and it falls with a heavy splat at our feet. And then there is nothing but my fingers against his face, cushioned by a thin layer of soap. They slide over the stubble on his cheeks and jaw, across the wide bridge of his nose, against his furrowed brow. Carefully I clean the burn on his neck, struggling against a foolish impulse to stand on tiptoe and place a healing kiss upon it. Not a word has been spoken. Bubbles like lace slide over the lines of his neck and down his chest, catching in the thin mat of hair there for a few moments before continuing their journey downward. I force my eyes away from their descent and draw in a shaky breath. I can't seem to think clearly, to carefully assess the situation I've found myself in. All reason seems to be abandoning me, leaving me sluggish and confused. I know what I want, but I'm frightened of simply taking it. Even now, when there is nothing more to lose, I'm afraid of letting go of my fears. They have always anchored me and given me strength to do what must be done. To tear myself away from their welcome restraint is difficult. But there's no reason not to. Not anymore. "Turn around," I tell him. "Rinse your face." Mulder circles obediently, if a bit unsteadily, and presents me his back, lifting his face to the spray. I am confronted by even more honey-gold skin, stretched smoothly over prominent shoulder blades. The last of the fear suddenly and utterly gives way under the weight of desire and I quickly shed my clothes. Clad in nothing more than heated skin, I step into the tub behind Mulder. His head begins to twist around, his eyes coming open. "No," I tell him firmly. "Stay there." There is still a part of me that needs to hide, to not yet let him see me so literally stripped of my defenses. And I don't want him to think I've surrendered, that he can simply take what is offered. I want him to recognize this as my victory, as well as one he can call his own. I work up a heavy lather and lay my hands on his shoulders. His chin immediately dips toward his chest as my fingers find and soothe the rigid muscles in his neck and across the tops of his shoulders. He begins to hum low in his throat, strings of appreciative moans. His skin is warm and pliant, silky even beneath the robe of bubbles. I work my way down his arms, replenishing the lather as I need it. I wash away the marks from the muscles of his biceps and forearms, my hands slipping down over his wrists, fingers tangling briefly with his before sliding up again. The shower washes over both of us now, wet and naked as children. But there is no innocence remaining here. My breasts make contact with his back as I lean over for the soap, and Mulder arches against me like a cat. I stand closer as I return to his back, washing my way down. My hands slide over his ribs and down to his waist as I step even closer. A sharp wave of heat rolls through me as the auburn curls covering my mons brush against his ass, my breasts now pressing firmly into his back. Our mutual sighs bounce against the tile, echoing softly in the steamy confines of the tub. Even if I wanted to, it's too late to retreat from what is happening between us. This game of push and pull we've been playing for so long must come to an end. Now seems most fitting a time. It's the only thing we have left to give. I step away a little, my soapy hands dropping to explore the rounded swells of his ass. Mulder pushes back against me and then shivers as I trace with a fingertip the crease where the back of his thigh meets the upward curve of his buttocks. I feel a secret smile settle on my lips and consider my good fortune. In this, if nothing else, Mulder has granted me his patience. He stands before me utterly compliant, content to let me take the lead in this dance we've begun. I regretfully leave the small globes of muscle and make short work of cleaning his long, narrow legs. Sweeping lather quickly across the furred skin of his thighs and calves, I come up from a squat and place a single, open-mouthed kiss between his shoulder blades. "Turn around, Mulder." His shoulders lift as he takes in a long breath, and then begin to fall as he turns to face me. Sudden shyness envelopes me as he completes the circle. I know that this time his eyes will be open, that he will see me, look at me, study me as I have studied him. No matter how much I inwardly rage at myself, I find it impossible to lift my eyes to his. There is a soft nudge against my belly and my gaze drops. His cock is fully erect, framed by a dark, dense forest of wiry curls. An instinctual thrill courses through me, pooling hotly between my legs. It's highly arousing, the knowledge that I've done this to Mulder, that I've elicited such an obvious reaction from my slow worship of him. There is a moment of indecision. While part of me wants nothing more than to drop to my knees and take him into my mouth, another part is enjoying this last long, slow seduction. There's still so much more of him to discover. Mind made up, I focus on his chest and smooth the bar of soap across its wide expanse. I lean a little to the side and place the soap back in the dish. And then my hands begin another exploration. Finally, finally, as my hands slip down his flat stomach, Mulder touches me. He reaches around and places the pads of his fingers against my upper back and slowly pulls them down, curving around until his hands come to rest low on my waist. His callused thumbs begin drawing small circles on my hipbones. My left hand slips lower, bumping against his erection, my fingers weaving through the coarse hair until they find and curl around the base of his cock. It is warm marble clothed in silk. My right hand comes to rest on his chest, his heart knocking rapidly against my palm. Only now, as I hold him firmly in my hand, am I able to lift my eyes to his. There is a storm raging there, dark and powerful and all- encompassing. His eyes are moss green behind hooded lids; tiny flecks of gold making them appear to glow in the diffuse lighting of the bathroom. They hold a kaleidoscope of emotions, all swirling and blending together. Arousal. Pain. Regret. Love. There is nothing hidden, nothing disguised. I look at Mulder and see into his soul. I am humbled and awe-struck by what I find there. But then he withdraws, closing his eyes, hiding behind heavy lids. "What?" I whisper. After long moments, his eyes come open and they are filled with fresh despair. A tickle of worry runs through me. I don't want him to slip away from me. Not again. "Mulder?" "It's over, Scully. They've taken everything." "No," I murmur, my heart breaking anew. "No, Mulder, not everything. We still have this. They can't take this." My hands lift to cup his face and I rise on my toes, pulling his mouth down to mine. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ end 1/3 In The Ruins by Lydia Bower Part 2/3 NC-17 Disclaimer in part one. Nothing but story here. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ His lips are velvety soft, his breath warm against my face as I pull away, only to return again. Small kisses, feather-light and gentle, shyly but determinedly investigating the lush landscape of his mouth. Endless, infinite, each caress of lips against lips lasting an eternity. But then gentle becomes firm. Soft becomes hard. Inquisitive becomes probing. The tip of his tongue seeks permission to enter my mouth and I grant it, opening under him. An arm encircles me and pulls me close while his hand tangles in my wet hair, cupping my head in his outspread fingers. His warm, thick tongue explores my mouth in wide and thorough sweeps. Mine investigates and circles his, fighting for a measure of control I'm not even certain I want. Waves of heat wash through me, and I cling to him as his kisses leave me weak- kneed and unable to think clearly. All I know is that I need this, need more. After minutes (hours?) Mulder breaks away. He nuzzles the hair at my temple, his cheek coming to rest against mine. We are panting softly, our hands continuing their sweet work. And then he bends low and gathers me even closer, squeezing me tightly against him. His embrace betrays both his strength and his vulnerability. "Hey, Scully?" He breathes the words into the cup of my ear. "Yeah?" "Water's getting cold." Sheltered by his body, by his heat, I hadn't noticed. And yet even now, after his pronouncement, neither of us seems in a hurry to move. I can't help but wonder if Mulder is worrying, as I am, that leaving this small space will somehow break the spell. Will we pull open the curtain and be forced to reconsider what's happening here? Once outside this island of pleasure we have created, will he decide we can't finish this? I don't want that to happen. I don't this to stop. "C'mon," Mulder says, reaching back and shutting off the water. I cringe as he pulls back the shower curtain with a quick jerk of his arm. Goosebumps rise up on my suddenly chilled skin. Mulder steps from the tub and pulls a towel from the rack. He passes it to me with a tender look and, ever the gentleman, offers me his hand, helping me out. I clutch the towel, unable to move now. Caught in stasis by indecision. Taking the time to dry off seems much too mundane a reason to stop touching him. I'd much rather stay wet and dry him instead. As Mulder reaches for a second towel, the decision is made. "Wait." He turns his head and throws me an inquisitive look. "Let me do that. I'm going to finish what I started." He settles his sleepy gaze on me, and desire flares darkly in his eyes. My decision has been the correct one. Mulder completes his turn and stands before me, arms hanging loosely at his sides, feet spread wide. He issues a welcome challenge with a simple tilt of his head and the ghost of a smile. There is a long moment when his eyes lower from my face and pass over me, slowly, studiously. I am caught like a small animal in the snare of his gaze. Lifting an arm, he lays his index finger at the base of my throat and draws it down the valley between my breasts. Watching the movement of his finger with fascination, as though it were attached to someone else, he slides it over the curve of my right breast and around the turgid nipple. Circling slowly once, twice, three times, before it journeys to the other side, repeating the action on my left breast. His eyes make a lazy trip back to mine. He languidly licks his lips. "You're cold," he tells me, his voice honey-warm, roughened by desire. While that may have been true only a minute ago, it isn't anymore. His touch has inflamed me. As I knew it would. As I've always known. I am faced with the unbridled power of the raw sensuality he keeps so barely restrained. A force often hinted at and now given free rein. I bask in it. It frees me, even as it binds me ever closer. "No," I assure him. "It just looks like I am." He chuffs softly. "Well, it's a good look, Scully. I like it." He reaches for me and I back away. "No, I'm not finished. It's still my turn." I've quickly grown addicted to the simple joy of touching him. And as long as he will indulge me, I intend to take advantage of the opportunity. Mulder shrugs and rewards me with easy smile, lifting his hands in acquiescence. After scrubbing his hair reasonably dry, Mulder ducking his head to make the job easier, I begin as I did in the shower, with his face and neck. Dr. Scully briefly makes an appearance as I can't help but inspect the angry burn on his neck. "I need to get some ointment on this, and a gauze pad." "It'll wait," he tells me. Until later, I translate. Until we're finished with this thing we've begun. His earlier quiet compliance has shifted to eager encouragement. This allows me to relax a little, grow more comfortable with what we're doing. There's no need to feel hurried now. There'll be no backing down from either of us. "Your hands may need to be bandaged, too." "Oh, I don't think so, Scully." Off my look he explains, "I figure sooner or later it's going to be my turn. And when I touch you," he murmurs, "I wanna be able to feel it. I don't want anything between us. Just my hands . . . on your body." I respond to his words in the only way possible: I stretch up and kiss him. Thoroughly, passionately. And he kisses me right back. Judging by the confidence of his ardent caresses, I don't think I need to worry about his hands. This time I pull away, my mouth drifting to the straight line of his jaw and down the curve of his neck. Mulder makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a groan as I flick my tongue against the tender skin below his ear. It's a sound I find very pleasing, and one I want to elicit time and again. His fingers gently knead my arms as I explore with my mouth the trail my hands earlier forged in the shower, drying him as I move down his chest. I nuzzle my nose in the patch of hair there, inhaling his clean, spicy scent. His flat brown nipples are teased erect with a few laps of my tongue. My name is pushed from his lips, low and yearning. The towel drops from my nerveless fingers as I move lower, following the thin line of hair that bisects his stomach. My hands low on his hips, I gently push him backwards. He bumps up against the toilet and awkwardly drops down onto the seat, chuckling as he goes. Ah yes, this is much better. Settling on my knees between his outspread thighs, I focus my attention on the intended target. I'll be the first to admit that male genitalia are not inherently beautiful. In fact, when in a flaccid state, a penis can be downright funny looking. But there's nothing amusing about what I reach out and take in my hand. Mulder's erection throbs hotly against my palm, lined with thick veins, the crown stretched tight and purplish-red with blood. Holding him firmly, I slowly stroke upward and then down, tip to root. And then again. Mulder throws his head back, his eyes snapping shut. A strangled growl seeps from his clenched teeth. Beautiful. Just beautiful. His cock is a perfect sculpture, long and thick and slightly curved, reaching for his belly. It's been a long time since I've been this close to such an impressive erection. But I haven't forgotten what to do with one. Mulder's head snaps back into place as I take his heavy balls in my left hand, gently rolling them in my palm. He looks down at me with something very close to astonishment written on his face. It's with a utter sense of victory that I dip my head, my tongue darting out to wet my lips, smoothing the way. And Mulder mutters, "Oh, man," an instant before I take the head of his cock into my mouth. My tongue, slightly rough and wet, darts and circles, discovering the saltysweet tang of him. Mulder goes completely boneless, sliding further down on the seat, his arms hanging limply, fingers almost brushing the floor. My lips curl up in a smile around the heft of him. He is mine. The small room fills with soft, wet sounds as I thoroughly bath him with my mouth. Alternating between long strokes and short flicks of my tongue, pulling him in deeper as I go. There is a moment when he bumps against the back of my throat and I gag--but only a moment. Relaxing as much as possible, I open myself to him, stopping only when my nose is buried in dark, wiry curls. His balls tighten noticeably in my hand. It's only as I begin to suckle him, my cheeks hollowing as I slide up and down his length, that Mulder's hands lift and settle, one on my shoulder, the other on the side of my head. He doesn't try to guide my movements or force me down. He merely strokes my hair, his hips rising and falling languidly. I revel in the taste of him, of his natural masculine aroma. He tastes clean and sharp and rich. He smells of life; of the earth and the salt of the sea. His low whimpers of pleasure join the sounds of my suckling and urge me on. Bobbing up and down, lifting and pulling, swirling my tongue around his circumference. One hand cradling his sac as the other stays firmly wrapped around his root, pumping in firm, slow strokes. Every whimper, every sound that leaves his throat, stokes the fire building within me. I squirm on the cold tile floor, my thighs pressed tightly together, increasing the friction between my legs. Moisture builds and pools, flooding me with heat, engorging my clitoris and swelling the folds of my sex until I find myself wishing for a third hand, a way to relieve some of this sweet tension. The heat overwhelms me and my hand leaves his balls and slips between my legs. Yes, oh yes. Two fingers slide deep into my canal and out, spreading slick fluid up over my clit. I glance at Mulder and find him staring down at me. His eyes drop to the hand between my legs. "Fuck," he hisses, his upper lip curling, the hand grasping my shoulder tightening its hold. He watches me pleasure myself as I pleasure him, his gaze soft but intent. And then his eyes slide closed and his tongue slips out to lick dry lips. Mouth and lips and tongue. Licking and sucking and pulling. One hand stroking him, the other circling my swollen clitoris. Heat building and building until I reach the razor's edge, dragging Mulder along with me. My name on his lips, repeated over and over, beginning with a soft entreaty and quickly becoming more forceful, more focused. Suddenly he sits up, the hands that moments ago were holding me to him now pushing me away. His cock leaves my mouth with an audible pop. My eyes flick up to his and he shoves out a heavy breath through pursed lips. Panting, almost breathless, he rewards me with a shaky, embarrassed smile. "Scully?" I smile right back at him. "Uh-huh?" "If I have any chance whatsoever of impressing you with my prowess, you're gonna have to stop that right now. It's been a long time." He punctuates his confession with a soft, self- conscious chuckle. I can't help but shoot him a smug grin. Okay, fair enough. I'm not ready for this to end so soon either. I nod sagely and rearrange my hands, placing them on his outspread thighs. Mulder immediately grabs the hand that was between my legs and takes my fingers into his mouth. He licks them clean, humming his pleasure. And then removing them, he looks down at me very seriously and says, "Thank you, ma'am. May I have another?" Oh, and how good it feels to laugh. To hear Mulder's scratchy baritone echoing around us, bouncing off the tile and settling sweetly in my ears. I know, I *know*, that more heartache lies before us. I know that this is only a temporary respite from the tragedy that's so recently unfolded. But I have learned to grab at those moments of pleasure, to cherish them while they last. I think Mulder has learned this, too. They may knock us down, temporarily steal away our hopes and dreams, but they will never fully defeat us. Not as long as we can continue to find some measure of peace with each other. Every day together, every experience we share, strengthens us. This time will be no different. There is great joy in that knowledge Mulder's low growl pulls me from my musings. "Is it my turn now?" I casually look aside, purposely stretching out the moment. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe." He's on his feet in a flash, pulling me up with him. "Maybe?" he repeats as he playfully backs me up until I'm flush against the wall by the door. "Maybe?" He presses up close, until my breasts are crushed against his chest, his erection digging into my belly. He grabs my arms and pulls them up over my head, holding my wrists in the grip of one hand as the other lowers to slide along my ribs and down to the swell of my hip. "So who says you get to call all the shots, Scully?" He towers over me, shamelessly flaunting his height and bulk. "What's wrong, Mulder, don't you like assertive women?" "Oh, I love assertive women," he assures me, dipping his head and tugging at my earlobe. He briefly cups my ass and then captures a breast in his hand. Pulling away, he holds my eye. "And I'm in love with one in particular, but that's beside the point." I am so caught up in the pleasure/pain of his thumb flicking across my nipple that the import of his declaration takes a moment to sink in. My face must reflect my surprise, because he nods to my unspoken question. "Uh-huh," he says. I fill in the blanks: You heard me right. My heart swells. I can't say I didn't know. But hearing it somehow makes it the truth of it so much clearer to me. I can do nothing but smile at him, no doubt looking as witless as I feel right now. Mulder has reduced me to a grinning idiot. I knew it was only a matter of time. "So what's your point, Mulder?" I'm amazed I can form the words. And then more amazed that my legs continue to hold me up as he snakes a hand between them, abruptly plunging one long finger inside me. The sound that leaves my throat is high- pitched and foreign even to me. No one has ever done anything to cause me to make that noise before. I doubt if anyone but Mulder ever could. It is the sound of my surrender. "God," I moan. "Ohgod." "My point, Scully," he murmurs, rasping his cheek along mine, his finger pumping into me as the heel of his hand bumps against my clit, ". . . is that I have a few ideas of my own." He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and flicks his tongue across it. Breathlessly I ask, "Such as?" He releases the lobe and murmurs into my ear, "Well, the thought of burying myself so deeply inside you that you can feel me in your throat holds a certain appeal right now." Oh, but I've felt that already. More or less. I decide not to remind him and instead wiggle a hand free of his grip, reaching down and grasping his cock. "Somehow I don't think that'll be a problem, Mulder." The chuckle he begins swiftly turns to a groan as I skillfully stroke him. He thrusts up into my hand and covers my mouth with his, muffling our moans. We are forced by lack of oxygen to break the kiss, leaving us panting, our mutual exhalations bathing our faces with moist, warm air. Mulder rests his forehead against mine. His finger slides out of me and circles my clit before returning, this time joined by two others, opening me more fully. He is quickly driving me insane. "What are you waiting for?" There is an undercurrent of desperation in my voice. And that's all it takes. He pulls his fingers free and reaches down to grasp my ass in his hands. Swiftly, bending from the knees, he lifts me. The damp skin of my back stutters along the tile wall as my feet leave the floor. Instinct raises my legs and I wrap them around him. He stops my hurried ascent when my breasts reach the level of his mouth. Bracing me against the wall with his hands on my ass and the weight of his body, he flicks his tongue against a nipple and then pulls it into his hot, wet mouth. I yelp and dig my fingers into his shoulders as he teases the taut nubbin of flesh with the point of his tongue. "Oh my God. Oh, Mulder, that's so good." I am actually crooning. I don't croon. I just don't. Until now. My fingers weave through his hair as he moves to the other breast, lavishing the same attention on it. I shamelessly grind my clitoris against his belly; so close, so close, so close . . . And then Mulder lowers me, his cock blindly seeking out my opening and finding it. A swift pump of his hips and I am filled with him. Past my throat, past my eyes. I swear I can feel him prodding at my brain. I shatter, flying into a million sharp and white-hot pieces. Vaguely, somewhere in the swirling maelstrom that is this moment, I hear Mulder quietly boast, "Gotcha." I go limp in his sturdy hold, my face pressed into the curve of his neck, my arms slung loosely across his shoulders. Tiny tremors continue to roll through my body, centering in the walls of my vagina, pulsing rhythmically around him. And then Mulder steps away from the wall and wraps an arm under me, turning towards the door. "Wha . . . ?" It's the best I can do right now. "Hang on, Scully, you're going for a ride." Okay. After all, I'm not in much of a position to argue. I am quite literally a part of him now, as he is of me. Where he goes, I go. Some thing never change. We don't travel far, and it's as he stops that I manage to pry open my eyes. We're standing in the doorway of his bedroom. He peers in the direction of the bed, pristine and empty, and then glances down at me, an appreciative grin on his face. I've managed to please him. This makes me inordinately proud. "Ah, Scully," he says. "You're good." "Thank you," I mumble against his neck. He walks us to the bed and bends deeply at the waist and knees, slowly lowering me to the mattress. His arms around me and my legs wrapped low on his hips keeps us joined together. Just as I'm realizing he hasn't made a single stroke inside me since his first, Mulder eases my legs from around him and pulls out of me. Oh, no. We can't have this. "Where the hell are you going?" He grabs me under the arms and lifts and scoots me to the head of the bed. Still kneeling between my legs, he parts my thighs with his hands and answers, "Pearl diving." This information is immediately followed by his cocky "you asked" look. Well, that's something I've never heard of before. At least not in those terms. As he slides down onto his stomach and presses my thighs even further apart, it strikes me how surreal all this is. Only hours ago we were standing in the burned-out ruins of the X-Files division, threatened with official closure and certain reassignment. And now here we are, naked as the day we were born, Mulder's face nestled between my legs. My life has become an example of the truly bizarre. At this moment, I wouldn't have it any other way. Arms wrapped low around my hips, Mulder uses his thumbs to pull open my slickened folds. There is a moment that stretches out forever, when we are both caught waiting and watching, the anticipation as titillating as any actual touch. And then Mulder purses his lips and softly blows warm air across my clitoris. Despite the fact of my stunning orgasm only minutes ago, this prelude alone is enough to spark anew the ember still burning within me. It blazes to life as the flat of his tongue sweeps over my sex in one long, agonizing stroke. Mulder places an open- mouthed kiss on my clit and then repeats the whole process. Two, three, four times, before he finally narrows his focus and concentrates on the hooded bundle of nerves. Once again, those odd squeaky sounds are leaving my throat as I squirm helplessly on the bed. I'm trapped by his mouth and his hands as he tilts my pelvis up. Grabbing the backs of my thighs, he folds my legs until they are almost touching my chest. There is momentary concern over how ridiculous I must look, completely splayed out before him like this. Then there is the darker, more thrilling realization of how much this is turning me on. I've never been this uninhibited with a man before, never allowed any of my lovers to put me into any sort of position that wasn't vaguely dignified and demure. The hazards of a Catholic upbringing, I suppose. But this . . . this is different. This feels so good, so right. This is Mulder. And Mulder's mouth on me. And it feels wonderfully decadent. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And enjoyed it immensely. The potential hinted at by Mulder's oral fixation is being fully realized and deeply appreciated. As with most things he does, Mulder is quietly determined and completely focused. As he slides a finger deep inside me, working it in and out in rhythm with his tongue, my world narrows to just this moment, just these sensations. His finger stroking the walls of my vagina. His tongue licking and swirling and flicking against me. Jabbing pointedly at my clit and then soothing the ache with slow, gentle laps of his tongue. My arms fly above my head and I grab the headboard, hanging on for dear life, my hips lifting from the bed, grinding shamelessly against his face. I am moaning almost continuously now, curses and threats and promises all leaving my mouth at once. And then Mulder finds just the right spot, the right speed, the right pressure. His mouth closes around my clitoris and his tongue begins a rapid, wide circling, flicking the bud back and forth. "Oh God!" My back arches off the bed as I cry out. I don't care how much noise I'm making. I don't care about anything except that he . . . must . . . not . . . stop. "Oh, yes. Mulder. Yeah. Right there. Fuck. Right there. Oh, don't stop. Please, don't stop. Oh my God!" It begins as a tingling in my fingers and toes and shotguns through my body. A million tiny suns explode across every inch of skin. A brutal conflagration I welcome with joyful tears; a moment spent in an infinite, healing fire. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ end 2/3 In The Ruins by Lydia Bower Part 3/3 NC-17 Disclaimer in part one. Nothing but story here. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The blaze rolling through my body abruptly banks, leaving me weak and flushed. Mulder carefully lowers my trembling legs to the bed. I feel the mattress shift as he moves up over me. "God, you're beautiful." Yeah, sure. I probably more closely resemble a drowned rat at the moment. Wet hair hanging in tangled locks and eyes no doubt circled with dark smears of mascara. I force open one eye and peer up at him. And then the other one pops open. All the better to see you with, my dear. He is tousled and sweaty, his eyes dark, his talented mouth glistening with my juices. *This* is beautiful. "Mulder, remind me again why we waited so long to do this." He cups my face in his hands and thumbs my cheekbones. His eyes grow soft as they move over my face. "I really do love you, y'know," he says. "This wouldn't have happened otherwise." My throat goes tight and my eyes begin to fill. "I know." My fingers trail lightly down his back as the seconds stretch out. And then Mulder considerately ends the awkward moment by dipping his head and placing kisses across my face, ending at my mouth. He shares with me my essence. And although he seems perfectly content to stay as we are, a not-so-small reminder of his condition is pressing urgently into my thigh. "Hey." I wiggle under him, shifting him closer to where he needs to be. "Mmmm," he responds absently, nuzzling my temple. "Don't we have some unfinished business to take care of?" "Yeah," he confirms. "But I'm putting off the inevitable." Maybe so, but still he shifts his hips enough to place the length of his erection along my sex. "How come?" I ask, and then play back what I've just said. I know he won't be able to resist. He doesn't. "I suppose the same way all men do, Scully. How come you?" Granted, it wouldn't be that funny under different circumstances, but right now it is. We trade looks and I have to hide my face, muffling my snort of delight against his arm. Mulder's back shakes with silent laughter. After a minute or so, I finally manage to gather some control. "So why're you putting it off, Mulder?" He lifts his head and looks at me sheepishly. "Because the inevitable is close. Very close. Embarrassingly close." You have to admire the man for his honesty in touchy situations. I know I do. "I don't care. I want you inside me." "Yeah?" "Yeah." So he lifts his hips from the cradle of my thighs and then settles back down, slip-sliding into me an unhurried inch at a time, until his sac is brushing against my upturned ass. The long groan that leaves his throat sends shivers up my spine. "Oooh, Scully, you feel so good." I wrap my legs around him, raising my hips and tensing my inner muscles to hold him tightly within me. "Stop that," he chides, giving me a look that I suppose is meant as a warning. Unfortunately for him, the impact is dulled by the grimace of pleasure that immediately follows. "I don't want to," I complain. I continue my gentle tightening around him. "Please, Mulder." "Please what?" He thrusts once and then stops again, dipping his head to pull a nipple into his mouth. His tongue busily flicks against it. "Muuuldeeeer." God, how does he keep doing this to me? He lifts his head and looks straight at me. And I gasp at the fire burning in his eyes. His surface control notwithstanding, I can see how close he is to losing it. "What, Scully?" he whispers heatedly, raggedly. "What do you want? You want me to fuck you? Is that what you want?" "Yes, that's what I want," I plead, thrusting against him again, my ass lifting from the bed. "Say it," he demands. "Say it, Scully." "I want you to fuck me, Mulder. Please." He crushes his mouth against mine and begins to move, going from zero to warp speed in the passing of a second. Full bore, flat-out fucking; hard and deep and frantic. He drags his mouth from mine and latches onto my shoulder, teeth sinking in deeply, threatening to break the skin. My ears fill with the sounds of flesh slapping wetly against flesh, of his animal-like grunts and my answering cries. Either he misjudged his staying power or we experience some strange phenomenon, but his climax is delayed long enough to pull me helplessly over the brink for a third time. I've stopped questioning how he can do this to me, can reduce me to a whimpering mass of flesh and heat. Some things don't need an explanation. Some things just need to be relished. I hang on tightly, riding out my orgasm as he pounds into me with mindless fury, his hips whip-snapping up and down, in and out. His lifts his upper body from mine, weight braced on his hands, shifting the angle of his penetration. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow wrinkled in concentration, his mouth open, sucking in air in huge, hungry gulps. Tendons stand out in sharp relief along the lines of his neck. Sweat drips from his body and lands softly on my skin. And then his frantic pace slows and he begins to move in measured, deliberate thrusts, ramming into me fully before pulling back, only to return again. His skin flushes red, starting at his chest and moving upward. I stretch up and place my lips on his neck, pulling the tender skin into my mouth and sucking gently. "Oh God, Scully," he whimpers. "Please." "Come for me, Mulder," I quietly urge. And that does the trick. He drives into me a final time, an agonizing groan of pleasure torn from his lips. His entire body shakes and trembles in my tight embrace. I can feel his cock pulsing inside me, emptying into me, bathing the walls of my vagina with his cum. He collapses on top of me, gasping for air, his body a burning cinder everywhere it touches mine. He buries his face in my neck, fighting to control his breathing, warm puffs of air bursting across my skin. My hands roam over him, soothing, healing, bringing him back to himself. Memorizing the satin smooth feel of his skin beneath my fingers. "Hey, Scully?" he finally murmurs. I turn my face and kiss his sweaty brow. "Yeah?" "Wanna do it again?" He is already chuckling into my neck. "I'm ready any time you are, Mulder." "I was hoping you'd say that," he mumbles. "But I think maybe we should just take a minute and . . . rest." His voice is sleepy, his tone soft and little boy-like. There's sound reasoning behind the claim that great sex is the ultimate sleeping pill for men. Give them a satisfying enough orgasm and you can bank on them nodding off afterwards. Actually, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea. I can't think of a better way to spend the next few hours than sleeping in Mulder's arms. "Mulder?" His response is slurred, sleep-drunk. "Scully?" "You're gonna have to move. You can't sleep on me." "Huh? Oh, sorry." He slowly, carefully lifts himself up. We both make small sounds of disappointment as he pulls out of me and rolls over onto his side. He puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me a little before snuggling up against my back, pulling me closer until we're spooned tightly together. He heaves a put- upon sigh and then scooches us away from the middle of the bed, inch by inch. He must sense my curiosity because he explains, "Wet spot," and snuggles up tighter, one arm supporting my neck, the other wrapped low around my waist. He nuzzles his nose against the nape of my neck and then places a kiss there. My eyes slip shut, a tiny smile tugging the corners of my mouth. I'm quickly lulled into that warm, hazy place we travel through before sleep finally drags us down. "Frohike's gonna be so pissed when he finds out about us." My eyes fly open. And here I thought he was asleep. Instead, he's thinking about Frohike. Why does this not surprise me? "And how would he find out if we don't tell him, Mulder?" God knows, Frohike is the last person I want finding out that Mulder and I have finally crossed the line and gotten physical. "He won't need to be told, Scully. The little troll's got some kind of weird built-in radar. He always just seems to know when somebody's gotten laid." I flash on the bizarre image of Frohike with antennas and a small satellite dish attached to his head and snort softly. I can feel Mulder lift his head from the pillow, trying to see my face. "What?" he asks. "So we'll avoid him for awhile. Until the newness wears off." And then I find myself wondering if that will ever happen. I just can't picture sex with Mulder ever becoming routine. The head goes back down on the pillow. Mulder's hand lifts to travel down the length of my thigh and then back to curl around my breast, cupping it gently in his palm. "We can't," he reminds me. "The boys have got all the back-up disks stashed away somewhere. We'll need to start rebuilding the X-Files as soon as we can. Hope their printer's got a fresh cartridge." "So we've got them all on disk now?" Making certain there are back-ups of all the files has always been one of Mulder's priorities. His sense of paranoia has served him well this time. And even though it's obvious the conflagration in the office was more a means of sending a message than any real desire to destroy information, much that was in the basement can never be replaced. Five years worth of memories, for one thing. "Yeah, all but the most recent," he confirms. "And I have the hard copies of those here in my desk." This conversation is forcing me think of things I'd rather not contemplate tonight. But once latched onto a train of thought, my mind has a habit of not letting go until the trip is over. I'm more than a little relieved that Mulder's already beginning to bounce back from this latest blow. I'm constantly amazed by the passionate determination that continues to drive him. But this time, we're faced with a larger problem than the full-scale destruction of the basement office. "They're going to try to separate us, Mulder." The arm around me tightens. "We won't let them." "Mulder--" "They can't, Scully. Not now. They've tried to take you away from me before and it didn't work. They've tried to take away the X-Files, too, and they couldn't do that either. We'll do whatever we have to do, Scully, but they're not going to do this to us." There is a small silence. "I won't lose you again. They'll have to kill me first." I turn my head and kiss the arm under my cheek. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." "It won't," he whispers with certainty, but it's really nothing more than wishful thinking. We both know it. If wanting a thing badly enough was the key to receiving it, neither one of us would have willingly endured the hell we've been through. Long minutes pass, but I find myself unable to sleep now. Mulder's breathing has evened out, becoming deeper and slower, his arm going slack around me. I keep thinking that I should be feeling more . . . giddy at this newest facet of our relationship. The pleasant ache between my legs is exciting in its own way, but only on a sexual level. And I guess that's the difference. We are already so tightly and inexorably entwined that making love has only added another thread to the tapestry of our lives, not defined it. We are defined by so much more. Trust. Respect. Loyalty. Affection. Honor. Love. I can't get over the simple fact that this feels so familiar, despite it being our first time together. Once past the initial awkwardness, it was like taking up where we'd left off. Like returning to an old, comfortable, and beloved habit. He is in my blood and in the air I breathe, and in the very cells of my body-- as surely as if he were a part of me. I can't imagine my life without Mulder being in it. But I also can't kid myself about any of this. We still have such a long way to go. So many more things to discover about each other, and learn to accept. Mulder will always be impulsive and erratic and frustrating, just as I will always be logical, cool- headed and reluctant to give too much away. This is simply who we are. That doesn't mean we can't learn from each other, that we haven't been all along. We are constantly transforming ourselves, shifting and blending, bumping against each other until we find just the right way to make it all fit again. I question my earlier unwillingness to give back to him the few words he spoke to me as we made love. Twice he told me he loved me, and neither time did I respond the way I know he would have liked me to. It's not that I don't love him, because I do. More than anything in my life. I don't know why it's so hard to say it. It's strange that I should find having sex with him easier than just telling him how I feel. At least then he'd know. So lying there beside him in the dark, feeling the flesh and blood furnace of his body cradling mine, I try out the words, whispering them under my breath, listening to what they sound like. It gets easier and easier, until I find myself saying them a little louder one last time. "I love you, Mulder." And it sounds good. Wonderful, in fact. I let out a happy sigh and close my eyes, ready for sleep. The seconds tick by in silence. And then, startling me a little, his voice floats out of the darkness, sleepy but smug: "I heard that." So what's a person to do in this type of situation? I do the only thing I can do: I roll over and tell him again. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ THE END comments to bower@cu-online.com